


Parthian Shots

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Alarm für Cobra 11
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-16
Updated: 2010-04-16
Packaged: 2017-10-08 23:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Takes place some time after 'Feuertaufe' but before 'Für immer und ewig'.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Parthian Shots

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place some time after 'Feuertaufe' but before 'Für immer und ewig'.

Joseph waited in the darkness. The warehouse was cold enough to make his breath curdle in front of him. The concrete beneath his feet seemed frozen, its surface cracked. The chill of it came up in waves through the soles of his shoes, and he wriggled his toes to remind himself that he was still alive.

The outside world was muffled. Distantly, he could hear sounds from the street. He tried to listen for the police car, but he knew that the cop wouldn't come here with the sirens blaring. Not for him: not for this.

He wondered if Jan would bring his new partner with him. Joseph didn't like Chief Inspector Semir Gerkhan. The Turk was cynical; he'd been around and seen too much. Not like Jan, whose introduction to the team of Cobra 11 had come about because Joseph had murdered his friend and partner.

Jan Richter was young and impetuous. He felt things rather than thought them through. He drove too fast, smiled too little, and thought himself a hero. He believed too much in what people called 'instinct', and he thought that this made him invulnerable.

Joseph only believed in things he could touch and feel. If he had an instinct, then it was a base instinct, one of survival. There was a line in his work that he always flirted with and tried to cross: the line between survival and death. Getting caught didn't bother him. Doing time didn't bother him. Staying alive was only fun if there was an edge to it.

And searching for that edge had led him here: to a cheap plastic chair in a cold warehouse, with his hands tied loosely behind his back while he waited for the police to come calling.

It was an old ploy, one he'd used many times before. One of his men tied him up, but not tight enough that he couldn't escape, and then they called the cops – or, more specifically, the cop that Joseph wanted. It always amazed him that it still worked, that the cops really believed it was this easy – but they fell for it every time.

He waited; and in time he heard footsteps. Not slow, cautious footsteps, the creeping step of a chief inspector, but footsteps swift and righteous, overly confident.

Joseph smiled and bowed his head, pretending at a weakness he didn't feel.

The door crashed open. There was a pause, as if the cop had suddenly remembered his basic training; and then in he came, rushing across the threshold: Jan Richter, all alone, just the way he wanted him.

"Tscherne."

He could hear the hatred in Jan's voice, and it aroused him. Even more exciting was the sight of the gun. The brief flash of light glittering along the barrel as the cop pulled it free of the holster enticed him. When Jan held it out, pointing its dangerous, sly little mouth at him, Joseph knew only love.

He leaned forwards in the chair, feeling the painful pull of his shoulders against the loose bonds that held him. He wanted to see the gun. It didn't matter that it was standard police issue. Every gun was different, even if it was made to standard. Guns, like all weapons used frequently, had a personality.

Cop guns were handled more than most, toyed with, abused, taken to pieces and reassembled. They had a special smell, too, something that you didn't get with those guns shipped over in crates from Russia or the Middle East. Joseph liked to imagine that cop guns smelled of trust, loyalty, and honour - all the things he didn't subscribe to in his own life.

Jan's gun was no different. Joseph could smell its scent from where he sat, still a good ten feet away from the lovely, vicious thing. But it had another scent to it, too: the smell of its owner, whose big clumsy hands were curled around the grip, marking the beautiful shiny surface with dull fingerprints.

Cop guns sometimes smelled of fear. This one did not. Joseph recognised its scent and smiled, lowering his head and breathing out in anticipation. Jan's gun was as eager as its owner. It wanted to play. It wanted revenge.

"You should be dead."

Joseph could tell that Jan was struggling with his emotions. The gun wavered, and the cop brought his free hand up sharply to increase the strength of his grip. The muzzle settled, pointing directly at Joseph's chest.

He could almost feel it drawing cold beads and cross-sights on him, and greedily he wished that the cop had more than a standard issue pistol, that he had a laser-sighted rifle instead.

"The truck hit you. I saw it," Jan said.

Joseph smiled. "Your eyes can play tricks."

"I saw it!"

The cop was stubborn. Joseph liked that. The stubborn ones tended to stick around longer, even when they knew that what they were doing was wrong. He licked his lips and forced his gaze away from the gun long enough to look up at Jan's face.

"Then I must be born lucky."

"Your luck's run out, Tscherne. Your man betrayed you," Jan said, sounding smug. "He tipped me off, told me that you'd be here. He sold you out."

Joseph managed to lift his shoulders in a tiny shrug. "Too bad."

"You'll pay. You'll pay for what you did to Peter!"

"I know a good lawyer. I'll be out of prison in less than five years."

"You'll be away for longer than that."

Joseph barely heard Jan's passionate words. It was always the same at this point: brave cops spilling brave words. None of that mattered. He kept his gaze on the gun, which spoke more concisely and eloquently than the cop could ever manage. He watched the way the muzzle dipped and flicked. It telegraphed his moves with a subtly that would escape the notice of most men.

Most men were not like Joseph.

"Out in five," he said, his voice dreamy, hypnotised by the gun.

"Bastard! You killed Peter and you kidnapped Lily!"

"She'll get over it," Joseph said, smiling, looking directly up at Jan with all the ferocity of a challenge. "Such a good little girl. She enjoyed sucking my lollipop…"

"No!"

He saw Jan's gun hand waver, swing back; and then Joseph felt his head snap to one side. Pain blossomed across his right cheek. His vision fogged, darkened, and shone at the periphery with dozens of exploding stars. His breath caught in his chest, seemingly jammed there by shock. With a sudden jolt of lust, he realised that the nice little cop had pistol-whipped him.

He tried to laugh, but instead drooled a thin trail of blood. Fascinated, he ran his tongue over his teeth, wincing slightly when he encountered further pain. He wished he could call a halt to this ruse so he could reach up and touch his cheek. He wanted a mirror to see the extent of the damage.

Never mind. The look on the cop's face was mirror enough. Jan looked startled, horrified. Joseph decided to press his advantage. He hawked a gob of pink-frothed spittle and lifted his head, his bloodstained lips set in a sneer.

"Isn't there a law against police brutality?"

The cop's expression darkened. He lifted the gun again. "You deserve it."

Joseph stared at him. "Yes," he said. "I do. But you know what? If I make a complaint, you'll go down, too."

"You'll keep your mouth shut, you scum."

"Make me."

It was always those words that did it. Joseph wanted to laugh at the simplicity of the game. Men were so easy to play: they just used whatever was nearest to hand in order to do the job as quickly as possible. And cops with their guns already drawn – excitable, angry cops like Jan Richter – why, they acted before they'd even started to form a coherent thought.

Cops like Jan always thrust their guns at his face, at his mouth. All he had to do was open up and take it in.

Joseph let the gun rest, cold and impersonal, against his lips. He felt the muzzle shift and twitch eagerly, like a cock. The steel slipped through his blood. He angled his head for effect, parted his lips, and took the gun into his mouth.

This was his favourite part: the reality of the gun between his lips. The metal, hard and unyielding, tasted good. Bitter and acid, heavy on his tongue: his saliva wetting it, his mouth warming it. The gun scraped and bumped against his teeth. Sometimes it would catch, agonisingly, and the pain would light through his skull, white and cold and pure.

He closed his eyes and forced his head down, taking the barrel deep into the back of his throat. He sucked on, swallowed, the taste of it. Trust and loyalty and honour, delivered by death in so elegant and beautiful a form…

He felt like crying. It always did that to him. Taking the gun was a pleasure deeper than anything he'd ever experienced elsewhere. It was a kind of power that made him fly higher than any drug.

A soft, gasped sound from the cop drew him out of it. Joseph opened his eyes to see that Jan had his free hand down his trousers and was frantically jerking off, his gaze fixed determinedly on the gun as it slid back and forth in Joseph's mouth.

He felt a distant amusement. It wasn't the first time he'd seen it happen. He supposed the sight of a bound criminal fellating a gun would make a man horny – after all, it made him feel hot enough. He could also understand the sheer lust of believing that one held the power of life and death over a captive. Base, immoral instincts. Yes, he could understand it – but he hadn't figured Jan Richter as one who'd surrender to those same instincts.

As he watched, Jan came, his semen spurting out to splash humiliatingly across Joseph's chest, spattering pearlescent trails on his leather coat. The cop sagged backwards, his breath harsh, his expression a mixture of shame and triumph. He relaxed his gun arm, almost allowing the pistol to slide from between Joseph's lips.

Joseph shook his hands free of the loose restraints. Before the cop knew what was happening, Joseph reached up and grabbed the gun, mourning its taste already as he took it from his mouth. With one smooth action, he turned it towards Jan and prodded the muzzle against his solar plexus.

Jan froze, and then crumpled to his knees. Although his chest still heaved from orgasm, his cock had shrivelled to nothing. His face was ashen, and his eyes glittered with the same lifeless metallic gleam of the gun-barrel.

Joseph smiled, a bitter, acid-grease tasting smile. He flicked off the safety catch.

The cop tried to speak, but his voice was as ineffectual as his cock.

Joseph laughed and jammed the barrel hard against Jan's forehead, hard enough for him to forget his fear and cry out.

This was his second favourite part: the part where they thought they were going to die; when they realised that they could scream through the terror that made them mute. Sometimes that was all they did – scream and yell. Joseph always killed them when their noise started to irritate him.

Some of them, the better ones, the stubborn ones – they tried to talk to him. They would sometimes beg for their life, or try to appeal to his better nature – funny how they always thought he had a better nature. Then there were those who offered him money or inside information in exchange for their life. Joseph usually shot them in the shoulder or through the kneecap before he left them. Humiliation was much more painful than death, and he liked the idea that his victims would never be able to forget their little interludes.

Jan surprised him.

"Kill me," he said, and there was no trace of pleading in his voice.

Joseph looked at him quizzically. This wasn't part of the game. "No."

The cop stared up at him, hatred in his eyes. "Then, fuck me."

That startled him. Joseph fingered the gun, sliding the safety back on before he knew what he was doing. Still holding Jan's gaze, he lifted the gun away from his forehead, and said clearly, "No."

Jan sneered at him.

It was a challenge he didn't feel like meeting: not when it was so unexpected. Not when it had taken the edge off his high. Without another word, Joseph stood up, shaking off the unravelled length of rope so it fell to the floor. The legs of the chair scraped across the concrete as he moved. It was the only sound between them.

Joseph kept the gun pointed at him as he backed away. He toyed with the safety catch again, arming the pistol. The dull click was loud in the silence.

At the door, he hesitated. Through the darkness he could see the cop still kneeling on the cold concrete. He hadn't moved. It would be so easy to kill him.

The gun was warm in his hands. When he looked at it, Joseph felt the red reminders of pain on his face, in his mouth. Such a pretty gun; it was a shame to deny it what it wanted…

He walked away two steps, and then gave in to temptation. Lifting the gun, his hand curled around it, and his finger tightened on the trigger. Without looking, he turned, pointed the gun back through the doorway into the warehouse, and fired.

When the smoke cleared, Joseph threw down the gun. He didn't want it any more.

Not when the warehouse was deserted.


End file.
